


Enough of Agony

by charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dark Sansa, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Godswood ‘Reunion’, Grief & Memories, Homecoming, Mild Sexual Content, Political Jon, Season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:02:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21663394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: For a moment, she thinks the gods have given back only what they took: a prayer for him, and him alone. Thinks it even as her hair ruffles in the wingbeat stirring the skies overhead.Her mind clears in the same moment that Jon meets her gaze. It is almost nothing —almost— the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes narrow, the way the fingers of his right hand freeze on the leather reins. But it is enough. She looks over his shoulder, spots the figure that rides beside him. Silver-gold hair, little bells lost in the braided depths of it; but their song is drowned out by the laughter echoing in the halls of her heart.He is back, so goes their jest.He is back. Isn’t this what you wanted?Sansa waits. Jon returns. Dragons claim the skies — even as wolves move together in the moonlit dark [post8x01].
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 128





	Enough of Agony

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been immersed in modern au for so long; thought it about time to sharpen my canon-compliant(-ish) knife again. Please enjoy this botched-edge little offering. ✨

Her father sits beneath the heart tree, shoulders edged by the gold of the setting sun. Ice rests upon his knee; nimble fingers move the whetstone along the silver-smoke sword. Back and forth, back and forth. A steady rasp that rises with the notes of the godswood: tree, leaf, rippling pool — a northman’s song.

Sansa takes a step, looks down at the mark of her boot on the fresh-fallen snow. When she looks up again half a heartbeat later, her father is gone. Shadows and mist, slices of sunlight swirling at the eddies of snowflakes on the air. Joy turns to ashes in her mouth, sinks like a leaden stone to her belly. She puts her hand to it, follows the spread of its ice with her fingers: sharp shreds of pain skating prickles across her skin, settling low and heavy between the crooks of her ribs.

A heart was there, once. Pink as her cheeks used to be, marching out a beat just as merry as the songs that filled the whirling multi-coloured world behind her eyes. Knights and ladies. Flowers and masques beside a river lit by lanterns. Silken skirts and summerwine. Laughter — easy, so _easy_ — tinkling like silver bell-song long into the night. Red rose petals pressed from a champion’s hand into the pages of a book. 

She closes her eyes, recalls their scent. Sweet, she’s sure it used to be — but now she can taste only ash and ache working bitterness into her tongue. Opens her eyes again, turns them skyward, to the flames of sunset spilling between the heart tree’s silver-grey branches. She stands where her father was just sitting, the snow perfectly laid beneath her feet; wraiths can press no weight upon the world they haunt, after all.

Puzzles it a moment, how it _used_ to be. Before she was a woman grown, before she watched her family turn from wolves to wraiths. Rickon, dimples in his cheeks, tugging at their mother’s skirts. Bran stretching the sinew of an ashwood bow, smiling for the joy of smiling. Arya, grey eyes warm as just-cooled ashes, skittering about in a stolen helm that gleamed silver in the sunlight. Robb with cheeks red as his Tully hair, sword in hand, feet braced apart as he sparred with Theon, laughter thick in both their throats. Jon — oh, _Jon_ — trying to hide all the fury of the winter storm that raged in his dark eyes, shoulders set square as he watched from the shadows, a part in it all — but always _apart_. 

The heart tree is smooth as bone when she lays a palm upon it. Above, the blood-red leaves whisper, trading secrets with the sky. Bare a breath, but still she hears them: distant echoes of a northman’s song. _Jon_ , she thinks. _Jon, Jon, Jon_. Prayer, mantra, charm, _curse_ — it is each and all, tumbling about like heavy water in her belly till the weight of it sinks her to her knees. Bone-white bark shreds beneath her fingertips; she grips at the tree, rests her brow to her forearms, shuts her eyes so tight she feels a white-hot pulse begin at the very edges of her skull.

Her father is still gone when she opens them again — but _he_ is there. Some spectre, moon-pale, shimmering in the last rays of dying sunlight. Near a ghost himself, all blurred lines and softened edges, but she finds his eyes even so, feels the rip they make in her soul, the healing balm they pour upon it. Reaches out for him, fingertips finding only air.

“Jon,” she says. “Jon. _Jon_ — ”

A breath of wind stirs ripples across the deep black pool at the heart tree’s foot, scatters the mist of wraiths and wolves she tries so hard to keep within her grip. It does no good. They are gone: her father, her mother, her brothers, her wolf. Jon — Jon, too. _He isn’t coming back_ , she hears the whisper as she kneels on the frozen earth, palms night-cool against the smooth white bark of the heart tree. Clutches it a little tighter, thumbs pressing at the corners of its carved eyes; full lips falling in an echo of its wailing, red-warm mouth.

“He has to,” she whispers. “Do you hear me, old gods? He _has_ to.”

Above, the blood-red leaves whisper, trading secrets with the sky. What she’d give to know them.

*

She should have known that the gods take and take and _take_ — milk and honey, sprigs of winter herbs, candles that burn like eyes in the night — and give back only what they please: twisted answers to the prayers sent up to them as smoke to the sky. _He isn’t coming back_ , they said as her knees turned to ice before their heart tree. _He has to_ , she said in reply. _Has to, has to_ — _has to_. Maybe the whispers she heard were jokes and jests; she hears them laughing even now as she stands upon the cobbles of the courtyard, watching the sky being cut to ribbons beneath the stretch of night-black wings.

 _He is back_ , they say. _We heard you_.

Just like that, they turn their backs on her, leave her as they all leave her — men and gods alike — alone, cool-eyed, straight-backed, staring serenely at the oncoming storm. He rides in, face moon-pale above the shadows of dark furs heaped upon his shoulders. For a moment, she is breathless; what little air there is in her lungs dances to the rhythm of the name beating its feet upon her tongue. _Jon, Jon, Jon_. For a moment, she thinks the gods have given back only what they took: a prayer for him, and him alone. Thinks it even as her hair ruffles in the wingbeat stirring the skies overhead. 

Her mind clears in the same moment that Jon meets her gaze. It is almost nothing — _almost_ — the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes narrow, the way the fingers of his right hand freeze on the leather reins. But it is enough. She looks over his shoulder, spots the figure that rides beside him. Silver-gold hair, little bells lost in the braided depths of it; but their song is drowned out by the laughter echoing in the halls of her heart. 

_He is back_ , so goes their jest. _He is back. Isn’t this what you wanted?_

*

Music at the feast that follows; but still she hears their laughter curled in the woodsmoke wrapped around the rafters. _He is back_. Drifts down with the dust shaken loose by footsteps, palms pounding on tabletops, raucous shouts threading colour into the night — settles in her cup till every sip of fire-warmed wine tastes of ash and ache. _Isn’t this what you wanted?_ Beneath the thick grey wool, the shiny links of silver chain, the serene ice-eyed look she gives to the hall, her heart beats out its agony as dagger-pricks against her ribs. 

A slice to her belly when she turns her gaze toward him, _them_. Heads bent close together, her pale hand upon his arm; his brows quirking at a question she asks as he bends to fill her cup. Cuts deep. Worse than a lion’s claw, than a mockingbird’s cool beak — than any of Ramsay’s knives. Feels it travel along her spine, tripping over every ridge, every bone-notch, till it sinks like an iron-clad fist around the nape of her neck, heavy fingers crushing at the blood and breath that fights to beat there. 

But she is a wolf — and so she fights it: fangs bared till the iron fist retreats. Fingers furling, grip loosening, wound smarting even as she snarls. _Enough_ , she thinks. _Enough of agony_. She is not its play-thing. She is not a little bird to be caged by it, taught to trill a single, sweet tune. She is a woman grown — a _wolf_. Not a wraith to sit placid as the stone-men in the crypts below her feet. Let the gods whisper, take up their milk and honey, give back their twisted answers. She is done listening to them. 

A serving girl fills her cup. She takes a sip. No more ash and ache. It tastes rich, dark — salt-hot as the blood flaring at the centre of her chest. A heart was there, once. Pink as her cheeks used to be, marching out a beat just as merry as the songs that filled the whirling multi-coloured world behind her eyes. The world is changed. _She_ is changed. But her heart still beats. Darker now, frayed at its very edges; still it _beats_. Her palm pressed atop it — thick grey wool, shiny links of silver chain — a drumskin to its rhythm. Looks up to find his eyes on hers now, as if he feels it, too.

 _Enough_ , she thinks. _Enough of agony_.

Quietly, she rises from her seat.

*

She sits beneath the heart tree, shoulders edged by the silver of the moon. Her eyes are on the deep black pool, following the patterns of the red-gold leaves skimming across it. Back and forth, back and forth. A steady rasp that rises with the notes of the godswood: tree, leaf, rippling pool — a northman’s song.

Footsteps, too. Treading so quietly only a wolf could hear them. But that is what she is. Him, too. What else could he be? She looks at him in the moonlight. Pale face, ash-dark furs upon his shoulders. Quiet steps, parted lips: a wolf scenting the air, moving in time with the slow, steady beat of another beast’s heart. _Hers_. 

“Sansa.” 

Her name in his mouth. Sweet, she’s sure it used to be — but now she can taste only spite and hunger working bitterness into her tongue. She does not rise from her snow-draped seat; but she looks at him. Looks _through_ him as he slips as a wraith between the silver flames of moonlight spilling through the trees. Closer. Closer. Wraith made wolf again. How it should be. Dimly, she feels her blood warm to the steady beat of another beast’s heart. _His_.

“I came here every day that you were gone,” she says. “Saw the shape of you. Said your name till it sounded like a curse… still, I asked the old gods to bring you home.” She watches him linger at the pool’s edge; something hot as smoke veiling the air between them. “I ached for you at every sunset. I prayed for you at every sunrise.”

“Is that what you have come to do by moonlight?” he asks. “Pray?”

“I have had enough of praying,” she says. “It is time to take what the gods will never give.”

Risen from her snow-draped seat now, she waits patient as a wolf beneath the heart tree. He steps lightly; barest marks of his boots on the fresh-fallen snow. She closes her eyes, listens as he treads his trail round the deep black pool.

He is there when she opens them again. Some spectre, moon-pale, shimmering in the silver rays of snow-washed moonlight. Not a ghost, no: not a single line blurred, nor edge softened. His eyes ink-dark as the skies above them, wrenching at the rip weeping in her soul, pouring a glimmer of healing balm upon it. Reaches out for him, fingertips finding flesh and blood: warm and good —and _hers_. 

“Before you left — ”

“We were as wolves,” he says, fire in his voice to match that flashing in his eyes. “I will not be sorry for it, Sansa.”

“I am not sorry for it, Jon,” she says into his skin. “But I will not suffer for it, either.”

He looks at her, turns the palm he keeps at her lips to cradle at her cheek. She looks at him as coolly and clearly as the moon high above them. Quietly, they watch each other. People say she is her mother in every way. Rubies and sapphires, porcelain skin, pretty pearl-cut smiles. But here — _now_ — she is her father. All the grim strength of a winter storm in her eyes. What can he do but bow before it? Hold up his hands and ask for shelter. 

“I did not bend the knee for love of her,” he says, a little softer now. “Nor for love of the North.” Something warm in her eyes now, same shade as her hair. “I bent the knee for love of _you_.” Thumb at her chin, he tips her face up; watches as her lips part, reedy sound spinning music on the moonlit air. “I will not be sorry for _that_ , either — nor for _this_.”

A kiss, she’d have called it once. Pink as her cheeks used to be, merry as the songs that filled the whirling multi-coloured world behind her eyes. Knights and ladies. Flowers and masques beside a river lit by lanterns. Silken skirts and summerwine. Laughter — easy, so _easy_ — tinkling like silver bell-song long into the night. Red rose petals pressed from a champion’s hand into the pages of a book. But the world is changed. _She_ is changed — and this is not a kiss.

It is her soul being ripped clean-out of her chest. Fire flushing away the ice in each valley and vein twisting at the edges of her dark, frayed heart. Heat blooming in places it shouldn’t — her throat, her hips: the heartbeat between her legs longing to welcome him back _home_. It is not gentle, this clash of tongue and teeth and taste. It is wolves moving in the moonlit dark. It is all the fury of the winter storm that rages in his dark eyes — in hers, too. 

“I need — ”

“What do you need, Sansa?”

“You, Jon. _You_.”

Reflexive, how they move together: _apart_ and yet a part _of_ each other. Each following the other’s rhythms. Palms flat to bone-white bark. Ash-dark furs tilted up. Thighs moon-pale as they part to wrap around his back. Fingers where she is hottest; an empty, keening sound ebbing from her lips. Swallowed up by his mouth as he puts aside his hand. Breath smoking on the cold air, twisting up together as he presses inside her, _deep_. The heart tree at her back, she leans her head against it; gives a sound that could be a sob.

“I am back,” he breathes against her neck. “I heard you.”

“Jon,” she whimpers. “Jon. _Jon_ — ”

“Tell me,” he murmurs. “How could _that_ ever sound a curse from a mouth as sweet as yours?”

“ _Jon_.” 

“Mm, _Sansa_.”

Above, the blood-red leaves whisper, trading secrets with the sky. But not this one. This secret is for wolves alone to keep.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I have **missed** canon universe. _Fixing_ it, anyway. Really enjoyed writing this piece; hopefully someone will find a hint of that enjoyment in the reading of it. Let me know if so, thoughts and comments mean the world. Inspired by a Rupi Kaur poem:
>
>> _he isn’t coming back_  
>  whispered my head  
>  _he has to_  
>  sobbed my heart
> 
>   
> **P.S.** if any of my beloved _Extra Credit_ readers find themselves here, the sequel should be **LIVE** on Friday! Before that, I will _of course_ be replying to your lovely comments. Over and out, my honeys. 🍯❤️


End file.
